“That’s a hurtful comparison.”
“It’s a useful one.” Zane grabbed a cold bottle from a small cooler near the shed door and handed it to me. “Drink half before we start.”
“I’m being watered before the plants?”
“You’re dressed like you came to apologize to a brunch reservation. Yes.”
Birdie made another humming sound from outside the shed. “He’s not wrong, honey.”
“I’m starting to understand this is a very interactive punishment,” I called.
“It’s a community garden,” Birdie said. “Community is right in the name.”
I opened the bottle and took several obedient swallows. It was cold enough to make my teeth ache. Zane waited until I’d had enough, then nodded toward the beds.
“Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
I followed him back into the glare.
The sun had climbed high enough to press heat into the back of my neck. Bees moved through purple flowers near the gate. Tomato vines climbed their cages in green tangles. A sprinkler ticked somewhere beyond the far row, sending tiny flashes into the air. The whole place buzzed with life and other people’s competence.
My ballet flats sank slightly into the soft dirt path.
I looked down.
One tiny bow had already collected dust.
“First casualty,” I muttered.
Zane glanced over his shoulder. “Your shoes?”
“My dignity, but the shoes are in critical condition.”
“That happened before the dirt.”
I looked up sharply.
He watched the path ahead, not me, but that almost-smile tugged at his mouth again.
I shouldn’t have liked him. I absolutely shouldn’t have liked him.
He stopped near the tomato cages. “Birdie Jenkins, volunteer and unofficial keeper of everything I don’t have time to remember. Gus Pike and Tyler Ames are on crew today.”
Birdie pulled off one glove and offered her hand. She was older than my mother, with silver hair tucked beneath her straw hat, warm brown skin, and sharp eyes that missed nothing. Shewore a faded yellow T-shirt, garden clogs, and turquoise earrings shaped like tiny leaves.
“Welcome to Larch Bend P-Patch, Daphne,” she said. “We’re glad to have help.”
“Thank you.” I shook her hand. “I’m glad to be helpful.”
That was almost true. I was glad helpfulness had been offered as an alternative to worse consequences.
Gus Pike gave me a nod. Up close, he looked even more intimidating. Black T-shirt, tattooed knuckles, thick gray beard, heavy boots, sun-browned arms. His eyes, though, were calm and amused.
“Ma’am,” he said.
I nodded back. “Hi.”
Tyler raised one hand. He looked early twenties, with sandy hair sticking out from under a baseball cap and a T-shirt that said LARCH BEND LITTLE LEAGUE even though he was much too old to be on the team. Dirt already streaked one cheek.
